


1 John 1:9

by Vrunka



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Blasphemy, M/M, Priest AU, inappropriate use of a confessional
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-02
Updated: 2019-05-02
Packaged: 2020-02-16 03:04:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18682849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vrunka/pseuds/Vrunka
Summary: “If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.”





	1 John 1:9

**Author's Note:**

> Third piece for the Overwatch Kink Anthology, the most random of all of them and honestly probably the one I had the most fun with!

"Forgive me, father, for I have sinned," McCree says with a smile. "It's been...well a long time since my last proper confession. Thought since I'm here I could uhhh amend that, so to speak."

Reinhardt shifts, uncomfortable, like the space on his side of the confessional is too small, like the thing hadn't been tailor made to his comfort some fifteen years ago. He is loved here.

That's the problem with this whole ordeal, isn't it?

McCree clicks his tongue. The shadow from the patterning of the partition makes his skin look molted. Snake skin. Desert skin. He smiles, white teeth in the low light that match the collar so so well.

Someone (probably his own damn self) has slicked his hair back. An effort to look more presentable and less like the long-limbed drifting pastor who rolled in out of nowhere.

Temptation in a dusty red serape.

A bible and a revolver on his hip.

He worries the congregation. Reinhardt would have to be blind not to see that; would have to be deaf not to hear the whispers every Sunday. The hushed, pointed gossip.

McCree is an anomaly, a change, and the Church's regular attendees do not acclimate well to it.

Reinhardt himself has not acclimated well to it.

He looks at McCree now, smiling at him blithely from the other side of the confessional. The sinisterly playful cut of his teeth. The gleam in his eye.

Some game here Reinhardt does not understand.

Some dog whistle he has missed.

"You gonna pray with me, Father," McCree asks, nose wrinkling, "or you just gonna stare all day?"

“O-of course, my child,” Reinhardt says, swallowing. Inexplicable panic settling in his throat. “Shall we begin the penance with an Act of Contrition?”

McCree chuckles. Stretches. The lazy grin has gone nowhere. “Deus meus,” he says. Leaning forward, dropping his voice. Reinhardt mirrors the motion. Mutters the prayer along with McCree. The Latin is clumsy on his tongue, more used to saying it in English with his laypeople.

McCree speaks it as easily as breathing. It makes Reinhardt wonder what his life must be like. Wandering New Mexico, spreading the word. A different life than Reinhardt’s, to be sure. An altogether more exciting one, most likely.

The prayer comes to an end, Reinhardt almost misses it, so caught up in his own thoughts. He swallows in apology, tips his head.

“What have you done, my son,” he asks. His voice trembles just a little bit. Afraid of the burden he is about to take on. Murder most likely. A host of mortal sins. But God will forgive, God always forgives.

“Indulgin’ mostly,” McCree says. The corners of his eyes crinkle. The partition doesn’t hide the playfulness of his expression.

Reinhardt’s throat feels dry.

The panic slides it way down into his chest. His belly.

“I see. Pleasures of the flesh are...are a temptation, to be sure.” Reinhardt can feel himself faltering, voice catching slightly. His hands making vague gestures in the air. He’s never had this issue before—not the masturbation one, his congregation has plenty of red-blooded young men who have confessed as much to him many, many times—but he has never felt so obtrusively helpless.

“But as you know...as you know it...it weakens our bond with the Lord our Father.” Reinhardt swallows again. Rubs his fingers against his cheek.

McCree’s hand has settled on his crotch. 

Reinhardt can see it, only just, through the partition. Just a glimpse down at he very edge of the partition window’s view.

McCree is gently, gently rubbing himself.

Reinhardt inhales, sharply. His breath whistles past his teeth. “You shouldn’t...do that,” he says.

McCree’s eyebrows raise. “No?” he says. He exhales through his nose, a building sort of noise. His hand flattens. His hips flex. Reinhardt drags his eyes away from it.

He should stop this.

He needs to stop this.

Right now.

“It’s sin, right? Cuz it feels good. It’s the devil’s work.”

Reinhardt shakes his head. “How can you hear God’s will if you’re...”

McCree makes a noise, a grunt, bitten off between his teeth. Whatever Reinhardt was saying—and he cannot remember himself, where he was going, the point he was making—it all dies in his throat.

McCree's fingers press against the screen. The holes are too small, just the tips emerge, clinging, indents in the rough skin. Anchored, but only just.

And Reinhardt shouldn't he shouldn't he shouldn't but he leans his head forward and kisses the calloused pads. He cranes his neck and nips just at where the nails end. The wood of the partition is cool where is squishes his nose. Pressing its pattern into his flesh.

McCree makes a sound, an undignified gasp. His fingers curl, disappear from Reinhardt's side of the barrier.

"Father," McCree drawls. His voice hurts to listen to. Stokes and simmers low, low down in Reinhardt's belly.

It’s been so long since Reinhardt has felt this way.

Temptation has long since been a hurdle easily cleared. He had faith, he had a congregation who loved him. He wanted for nothing more. He was prideful in that.

Maybe this is his punishment.

McCree’s hand moves in quick, jerky strokes. Dragging over the flesh that Reinhardt can only just see. The sun-kissed brown of it. Hard, rosy flesh.

“You think he’s watchin’ this,” McCree asks. His voice is husky, worked up more than usual. Honey-thick with arousal. “Think he has time in all the important things to be watchin’ me?”

“I...” Reinhardt shakes his head. His shoulders roll. He is an old man, he is a wise priest. He should have the answers for this.

And the answer should be stop.

And the answer should be repent.

And his answer is:

“I don’t know.”

McCree grins. His teeth catch on his lip. A bead of sweat rolls down his cheek.

“Should probably give him a good show then, huh?”

And a good show he does give. As animated in this wanton display as during his sermons, absolutely driven and sincere and earthy. Genuine, straight to the heart of it.

“Father,” McCree is saying, bitten between his teeth. Wrecked beyond measure. Worked up and worked over quickly.

Reinhardt nods, realizes McCree’s eyes are mostly shut, and clears his throat instead. “Yes my...Jesse?”

“Oh, Christ,” McCree grunts, sharply. The Lord’s name in vain feels like the smallest sin passed between the two of them here, Reinhardt doesn’t even bother to admonish it.

Not that McCree would hear the correction even if Reinhardt uttered it. He’s too far gone, cock shuddering and spilling across his fist.

If there was no screen between them, Reinhardt knows he would be kissing him right now. Would be holding McCree's face as the other priest comes down from whatever heaven orgasm shot him to.

Would be murmuring small platitudes, praises.

But there is a screen.

A distance.

Reinhardt's throat is dry. Wordless. He has nothing. No sermon about this.

He cannot stop staring at McCree's spend, splashed, white. Telling. Drying. Condemnation.

But God forgives.

"God always forgives," Reinhardt says. Lowly. It comes out more of a rumble than he means. He clears his throat.

McCree's eyelids flutter. His eyes open. He grins from one side of his mouth. "If you're sorry, then yeah, he does."

"You say that as if you are not sorry. You came here to ask forgiveness, did you not?"

McCree rolls his shoulders. Some of the motion is lost behind the screen. His hair curls at his temples, shaken out of its style, wet with sweat. He sits forward, leans his forehead against the partition.

"Guess I did. I dunno. He doesn't always make things clear to me." McCree swallows. His throat clicks. His hands rub at the come that is still wet on his clothes. Reinhardt can see his Adam's apple bobbing against the collar.

“We should probably—“

“Aren’t you gonna take care of yourself, Father?” McCree asks. And though his tone is gentle, there is mischief and malice in his accompanying grin.

Reinhardt shifts. His own cock aches in his trousers. His hands clench on his knees.

“I should not,” he says. Bad enough he watched McCree shuck his vows so. Bad enough he enjoyed it. It’s time—beyond time—to put an end to this.

“You really are a good man, hmm?” McCree intones. “Good priest. Obedient. It’s charming.”

Reinhardt feels himself blush. “I do only as the Lord commands of me.”

“I get that,” McCree says. “Can’t say I’ve ever been as dedicated as you but it’s...refreshing. Want me to help?”

“Help?”

“I can tell you how,” McCree says, simply. “Just this once. And God will forgive because you’ll be sorry. You know?”

A loophole Reinhardt has heard from his congregation on more than one occasion. A pitfall of faith easily exploited.

But never by Reinhardt. Never by...

“Okay,” he says. Shifting again. Smoothing his palms against his knees instead of gripping.

“Yeah,” McCree asks, grinning again. Toothy and wild.

“Yes.”

Reinhardt has never had the desire to try the things McCree describes to him so lewdly through the partition. Pressed against it so he can see.

"Yeah, Father, just like that," McCree says. "Keep your grip tight around the head like that." So Reinhardt does, keeps his fingers a tight cage around the tip as he fucks his fist. He is breathing too loudly in the space, feels clammed up again, claustrophobic.

"I wish I had you alone," McCree says, practically growls. Huffing a breath against the screen that Reinhardt can feel against his own too warm skin. "Wish to hell I was touchin' you like that. Wanted you since I first arrived, like this. Wanted--" McCree cuts himself off with a quiet laugh. Thick. Dragging.

"Guess it's another sin on my list, huh? Lustin after you like some dog in heat."

Reinhardt's breathing hitches, it stutters between his teeth. McCree's list of sins and here Reinhardt is, adding his own. God won't forgive this. He cannot forgive this. This is a trespass higher than simple prayer can atone.

Reinhardt's rhythm falters. His feet shift.

"Wrap that rosary around your cock, Father," McCree says. Quick and low. Rasping.

“What?” Reinhardt manages to say. Voice louder than he means. Scandalized and sliding out of his control.

McCree’s nose wrinkles. He tips his head. “Yeah,” he says, “you’re right. We’ll get to that next time.”

Next time.

Next time.

There cannot be a next time, there should not be a this time. But Reinhardt has a sinking feeling, as orgasm bubbles under his skin hot and frothing and too, too close, that McCree will be true to his word in this.

That there will be a next time.

That Reinhardt will look forward to it, ashamedly, even as he prays this time away.

But God will forgive it.

God always forgives.

Always.


End file.
